


Pelargonium

by CorpseBrigadier



Category: Lady Audley's Secret - Mary Elizabeth Braddon
Genre: Extra Treat, First Kiss, Language of Flowers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22469239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorpseBrigadier/pseuds/CorpseBrigadier
Summary: In which the author addresses some gaps and omissions in Mrs. Braddon's account of Robert and George's reunion.
Relationships: Robert Audley/George Talboys
Comments: 10
Kudos: 15
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Pelargonium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/gifts).



> I was so excited to see a request for this novel and this pairing!

The sunlight cast dappled shadows through the lone tree that stood in one of the actual courts of Fig Tree Court: a holdout of the natural world transplanted into the heart of the city’s artificiality. In his prior life, Robert Audley had regarded it with a vague sense of camaraderie; it was one of the only things in the Temple that was content to stay put instead of scurrying about from court to clerk’s office to taproom and making itself thoroughly ridiculous in the process. Now, coming back to it after so many months of scurrying, he looked to it with an almost envious sort of wistfulness.

It was not enough, of course, to stay his preparations to scurry off to Australia, but it served as a reminder of that desultory phase of his life that he knew must be abandoned. As he ascended the steps towards his offices, he considered that it was in those hot days of undirected bachelorhood that George had last rolled out of his bed to listen to his birds and reject his cigars.

He had enjoyed time enough to recognize what he had longed for from such lost mornings. It had been a gradual, slow-dawning thought--one he certainly would not have countenanced had his friend not disappeared. The man had had to vanish, die, and be resurrected anew within Luke Marks’ death confession for Robert to finally understand.

That was past now, though. Robert had determined that he must direct himself forward--sober, meerschaumless, and alone--before he could think on it again.

As he nearly tripped over Mrs. Maloney on the landing, heard word of his unexpected visitor, and stumbled up toward his own apartments, however, he did not yet comprehend the great irony as to how little forward he would have to be moved.

When he had first reached the steps of the building, he’d acknowledged a greater awareness of himself as regarded George. By the time he’d finally ascended them--pulse quickening at the sound and feel of a human shape in the room before him--some unconscious cerebration was giving shape to his anticipations, such that when he opened the door, the sight of George seemed as natural as the slow moving sunset behind him. 

All his images of Clara were in that instant both recalled and scattered: a memory of Diane that immediately gave way to Apollo. From there, revelations were had, clarifications were made, incidents recounted. They spoke of all that was to be said of matters past--of New York and of Belgium--and Robert was witness to that awful quiet of inward grief when George learned at last of his wife's fate.

The weight of such silence fell deeply. As those two men stood in sympathy, Robert felt and knew the pull of that imperceptible warmth that radiates between two souls entangled: something that Eliottson or Reichenbach might deem animal magnetism, but that the ancient and pagan world framed in terms of a little boy's archery. 

It was such that when George Talboys, voice cracking, spoke of the touch of his friend’s hand, of his yearning for its strong grasp--Robert Audley did not loiter.

He took him instead in arms.

There was, perhaps, an utterance of “Bob, what are you doing?”--a moment’s fumbled confusion--but when Robert drew close and with great tenderness kissed clean those welling tears from the edge of George’s eyes, there was no objection. There was only a moment’s shocked hesitation before George gripped him back tight and fast, and whatever building circuit between them closed itself with the joining of mouth against mouth. 

The sun was down now, with only the slightest purpling of the sky to attest its presence. The canaries, unsure if they were to be covered, stilled their song to a few inquisitive cheepings. There exists no record as to what the birds thought of the proceedings: of one man pressing the other against a wall to rumple his shirt and breathe hotly against his neck and chest. By the next morning, however, the baize had not yet been brought over them, and they were free to watch George attempt to roll from sleep out of that iron bedstead once more, his motion impeded by the clasp of a warm, heavy arm around him.

From here, it may be that George and Robert found themselves transported to some fairy cottage within two years time, or it may be that Robert disposed of a few French novels and made room for George in those Temple offices. Perhaps it may have been that they ended up in some other clime and country altogether, as might follow from George’s natural wanderlust and Robert’s newfound penchant for direction.

In the immediate aftermath, however, what occurred was that the May sun came back once again to Robert’s dusty window, and it shone on his mess of geraniums. When George Talboys blinked his eyes open--still ensnared mid-roll--it was to the rosy light of a day filtered through so many red petals.

Robert--having long been a bachelor--and George--having been married but briefly--knew nothing of that language of flirtation in which some ladies trade: bundling about ciphers into their bouquets and delighting in the sort of _billets-doux_ that might wilt and leave no evidence. Experts disagree as to what shade of rose means what and how many gillyflowers must be folded into a “my dearest,” but there are guides for that. It is certain My Lady was versant in many of them.

As such, perhaps she might have known--much to her bemusement or disdain--that the geraniums had been in accord with near every scene they had witnessed in that little room. One writer gives their meaning as “folly,” another as “friendship.” They stand for meetings both expected and unexpected, and they sometimes speak to the triumph of human ingenuity.

They are also, however, meant to stand as a bridal favor: to speak to the hope of a union never to be broken.

Prior unions aside, it seems a fitting portent.

**Author's Note:**

> See my [profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorpseBrigadier/profile) for notes on remixes, podfic, derivative works, and constructive criticism.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: 'Pelargonium' by CorpseBrigadier](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24312256) by [peasina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasina/pseuds/peasina)




End file.
